


Ain't We Got Fun?

by FeistyPeachtron



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 12:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeistyPeachtron/pseuds/FeistyPeachtron
Summary: When Alastor first saw Charlie fail on the news broadcast, he felt the long-forgotten, familiar pull of the hunt. She should have been the next victim, the next doe he would skewer and skin. She was an easy target--innocent, wide-eyed, pure. But when the hunt comes to a close, will Alastor still find the chase the most exciting part?
Relationships: Alastor/Charlie Magne
Comments: 29
Kudos: 639





	Ain't We Got Fun?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first work since joining the site--I hope you enjoy!

_"Stop! Stop! Please! Please stop!"_

The screams were always the best part. Sound was such a precious, important part to any process and the sound of their screams, their useless pleas, was what Alastor looked forward to the most. He'd always had a thing for sound--perhaps that's why he became so devoted to radio broadcasting--from his early years listening to his mother hum a quiet, forlorn melody as she sashayed her hips around the kitchen to the overwhelming, breathtaking grandeur of the big band performances on the riverboats, always close enough to hear from shore but never close enough for Alastor to feel included. There were other sounds, sadder sounds--the snap of a belt against flesh, the echo of a rifle through the calm swamp landscape, the soft whimpers of defeat that replaced that quiet, forlorn melody whenever father came home--but they all blended into a discordant, comforting tune, one that Alastor would later recall with perfect clarity the first time he slit a throat and dumped a body into the muck of the swamp.

Maybe that's why he paused to listen when he heard Charlie's song, that upbeat ditty with the quick tempo. She sang with a passion, something Alastor hadn't heard in a long time, and it brought back the memory of sneaking into that newly-opened club when he was only 15 and hearing the opening performer--a peppy girl by the name of Annie Daley with short blond curls and the brightest blue eyes the south had ever seen. Alastor had never been one for romance or anything like that, but he always thought of Annie Daley and her too-innocent-for-this-world persona as his first, and perhaps only, love.

_"You mean you work at the radio? Have you ever met Louis Armstrong? What about Jelly Roll Morton? My, I'd love to hear myself singin' over the radio someday."_

Do serial killers have types? Is it like searching for relationships--a preference for blondes, lightly tanned skin, long legs, button noses, intoxicating optimism, big dreams? Alastor never thought he had a type until he had three of them tucked away in the shed behind the house, knocked out and tied together with gags in their mouths, blonde curls falling over each of their sleeping faces. He took a moment to assess, to kneel down and take a good hard look at them, before grimacing, realizing these three blondies hadn't been the first he'd snagged--hell, he could remember the vibrant baby blues and strawberry blonde locks on that college boy with the strong musk from just last week. Did they all have to look so much like sweet Annie Daley? 

Alastor didn't think it was a coincidence that this new catch, this optimistic, big-dreamed, blonde princess, fit perfectly with his type. In fact, the moment he saw her, felt that once-again-familiar tug of the chase, Alastor knew he had always been destined to find her. Hell, she'd been destined to find _him_. She was his personal hell, the prey he could never kill, the one who would sit around, singing her cheerful tunes, smiling her bright smile, taunting him with her perfection, a perfection he wanted to steal and tarnish and crush.

_"You'll never get away with this! There's people lookin' for me! They'll come lookin' and they'll find me and you'll be right screwed!"_

Alastor loved when they threatened him, when they showed signs of hope. They always had a secret in their gaze, hidden behind the resentful glare--a secret look that screamed despondent fear. They had no hope--they knew it, he knew it, the families and friends new it--but by god did they try to put on a false mask of perseverance. It dawned on Alastor one day that perhaps this joy in life was what forced his smile in death. He loved that false uplifted display so much in his victims that perhaps he was punished to always do the same. He would smile and smile, forever and ever.

And she would smile, the bright little thing, fangs just visible behind black lips. Alastor would smile and the room would grow darker, sinister; Charlie would smile and the room would light back up. What a strange pair, these business partners, and what a strange feeling Alastor felt when she first welcomed him in, first smiled at him as a comrade, as an ally. He felt the room shake with her pleasantness, saw the way the other occupants gravitated towards her. She was a powerful force unlike anything Alastor had seen before, a force he both admired and found repulsive. She was a contradiction, the spawn of Lucifer and the only angel in Hell. How was Alastor supposed to stay away from one such as she?

_". . . Every morning,_  
_Every evening, _  
Ain't we got fun?  
Not much money,  
Oh, but honey,  
Ain't we got fun?  
The rent's unpaid dear,  
We haven't a bus.  
But smiles were made, dear,  
For people like us . . . ."

Though he'd heard plenty of songs in his time--Pops may not have loved his family, but he sure loved his records--Van and Schenck's "Ain't We Got Fun?" was always his favorite. He'd find himself humming it when he was working on a project around the house and would sing it with great fervor as he broke the bones in his victims' hands, one by one, in time to the tune. They never wanted to sing along with him, though he generally understood their reservations. They were like deer in the headlights, justifiably afraid and ultimately doomed. When Alastor sang to them he wondered if they would remember the song in the afterlife, if it would haunt their days as much as it did his.

He sang Charlie the song once. There wasn't a particular reason for the sharing, but he saw her humming to herself one day, dancing with the broom she was supposed to be using to sweep up the back hallway, and his body moved before his brain could react. In a swift motion the broom was discarded to the floor, Hell's heir was in his arms, and he was twirling her around as he let the tune cascade from his lips. At first she was stiff, from shock he presumed, but Charlie was a performer at heart, a lover of the beat as much as he was, and she soon was laughing to the little ditty, allowing herself to get lost in the rhythm of the impromptu spectacle. Unfortunately Vaggie was quick to intervene, stumbling upon the two just before the climax of the song, and pulled Charlie away muttering curses in Spanish. As she was pulled away, Charlie glanced over her shoulder, smiling apologetically at the Radio Demon behind her. It was the first time someone had heard Alastor sing that song and not cried. It was also the first time someone had heard Alastor sing that song and not died.

_"Look, I promise not to tell! I won't say a word, I promise! Just please, please let me go! I can keep a secret--I swear I can!"_

The one that got away was a scrawny kid who worked at a barbershop sweeping up the scraps. He had hair the color of straw, slicked back, and the hint of a beard beginning to show. Alastor picked him out when he went to get his haircut, trimming up the slightly-unkempt, dark locks that marked him so obviously his mother's son. The boy had smiled at him through the mirror more than once, showing a dangerous interest in the older man with the big personality and the fancy suit. They wined, they dined, and Alastor had him ensnared quicker than most. But, alas, it wasn't meant to be and the barbershop boy slipped away from his restraints in the middle of the night, breaking his foot in order to get it out of the chain that bound his ankle. He ran for hours on that broken foot, adrenaline and panic fueling his escape until he finally, broken and bruised beyond recognition, stumbled into town. It wasn't long before they came, those simple-minded fools, and strung Alastor up in a tree outside his home, torches burning and rocks thrown as he took his final breath. They buried him in the swamp, let the muck and grime consume him, and they tried to move on and forget his deadly legacy.

Charlie had commanded Alastor to stay at the hotel for as long as he pleased, but refused to make a deal with him. She'd been very explicit about not shaking his hand, not making him a promise. He hadn't taken it personally. But months later, after their dance, after he'd find himself humming when she was in the room just to see her reaction, after he stood up for her when Lucifer came to shut this whole "bullshit hotel business" down, Alastor convinced her to promise him something. He'd found her crying--she did that a lot when she didn't think anyone was around to stumble upon her--sitting on the ledge of the roof, staring over the hellish cityscape. At first he debated turning and leaving, but Alastor had found himself more and more drawn to the woman, to her contradictions, to her music. He sat beside her without a word. She hurried to apologize and get up, but he stopped her, forcing her to sit. He couldn't remember if he had forced her to lean on him or if she'd just done that of her own fruition. He told her to speak and she did, for nearly an hour. She spoke of her insecurities, of her fears, of the dreams she had, of the power inside of her she was so afraid of, of the pressures from her family, of her mother and father, of her happiest moments and of her saddest. She talked and Alastor listened and when Charlie had concluded Alastor made her promise to come to him, no one else, whenever she needed to talk to someone. After a pause, she agreed. After another pause, she kissed his cheek. And after another, she was gone, back to her duties. And Alastor was left alone on the rooftop, cheek burning where her lips has touched his skin, pondering the fact that he'd just let her leave, but had decided he wouldn't be letting her go anytime soon.

_"You're such a sweet boy, Alastor. I--I wish it was just you and me, Alastor and Mama against the world... I--I'm so scared, sweetheart, I'm so scared that I'm gonna have to leave you and you're gonna get broken and you won't be my sweet boy anymore. You're such a kind, bright boy. Don't change. Please don't change, Alastor."_

His mother had always been the kind one, the sweet one, the broken one. She'd nurtured and cared for him even as she was beaten and brought down. She was an angel, Alastor was convinced, the first angel to marry a devil. Everything bad happened after she died, after he found her swinging in that tree, neck snapped. He spent hours sitting under her, crying, ripping at the grass, throwing rocks, killing insects and threatening small rodents that got too close. Papa beat him when he found the boy sitting under that corpse, reprimanded him for not alerting someone sooner. She was the kindest person, with the kindest words, and she loved Alastor more than anyone ever could. 

The first time Charlie kissed him, _really_ kissed him, he thought of his mother. It was an odd thought, he'll admit, but he felt her in that moment, felt that familiar affection, that comforting warmth. When she pulled back, Charlie was aglow in scarlet, and she looked at Alastor like a deer in headlights, like prey waiting for the slaughter. He'd caught her, he'd snagged the unattainable, conquered the unconquerable--his hellish punishment was about to be removed from the equation.

But he couldn't do it. 

The way she looked, the way she swayed nervously from one foot to the other, the way she _looked_ at him--he couldn't handle it. He didn't kiss her back, not right away, but her touched her, gently, gentler than he'd touched anyone in a long time, like she was a piece of porcelain dangling over a sheer precipice. He ran his gloved thumb across her cheek, felt the heat there, and for the first time in quite a while his smile was small, but it was genuine. Instead of kissing her then, he pulled her against his chest, leading her in a slow waltz, humming a slower-tempo "Ain't We Got Fun?" into her hair. Charlie relaxed against him, and he could hear the smile in her voice as she began to sing.

_"Every morning, every evening, ain't we got fun?"_


End file.
